


pillars of salt

by luminoussbeings



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: (but before the epilogue), Angst with a Happy Ending, Brotherhood, Canon Compliant, Catholicism, Character Study, Coming Out, Gen, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, post trk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-22 10:19:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13762038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luminoussbeings/pseuds/luminoussbeings
Summary: Ronan stopped. His heart was a telephone pole cleaved by lightning, dangerous and electric. Distantly, he realized he was making an ass of himself, but what else was fucking new.in which Ronan has some much needed conversations





	pillars of salt

Ronan dipped a finger in holy water, selected a pew in the back of the darkened church, and prayed.

Or rather, _tried_ to pray. Even Ronan, who three out of four psychics would agree had an above-average imagination, couldn’t see a universe where God wouldn’t take one look at him and turn the other way.

 _Abomination_.

He shifted in his seat, tattoo curling upward from his collar. Beside him, his dreamt raven skittered her claws on the lacquered wood.

Almost everything about him was an abomination. And despite his above-average imagination, Ronan couldn’t see a universe where he could stop giving a shit about that.

***

When they were small, the two eldest Lynch brothers went to Sunday school. Matthew, still encircled safely in his mother’s arms, would wave a meaty palm at them as they neatly exited the pew. Then Ronan would follow Declan down the steps to the church basement.

Time had since reduced his memories of those mornings to an indistinct blend, but there were still a few specifics he could trace. The press of the straight-backed wooden chair against his tailbone. Clouds of dust stirred from chalk and ancient leather bibles. The pointy black shoes of his teacher, Sister Marjorie.

And Declan—always Declan. Declan, raising his hand primly; Declan, volunteering to read the passages; Declan, glancing around to see if the other children were impressed with his reading ability.

Ronan was not.

One day, the reading was from Genesis. Declan—who, by this point, was probably a shade too old for Sunday School anyway—didn’t even need to volunteer. The old nun just pointed to him and nodded, what passed for an indulgent smile flitting over her lips. Declan puffed out his chest and began to read.

“ _Early the next morning, Abraham got up and returned to the place where he had stood before the Lord. He looked down toward Sodom and Gomorrah, toward all the land of the plain, and he saw dense smoke rising from the land, like smoke from_ —Sister?”

Ronan scratched chalk along a groove in the corner of his desk. Declan often did this, punctuating the readings with questions and clarifications on various words, names, meanings.

“Yes, Mr. Lynch?”

Declan straightened in his chair. Ronan wondered if the only reason his brother asked so many questions was the thrill of being referred to by his father’s name.

“Pardon my interruption, Sister, but _why_ did God destroy Sodom and Gomorrah?”

Sister Marjorie’s eyes slid from Declan’s. Now, _this_ was interesting—Ronan had never seen the Sister as anything less than eager to answer his brother’s questions.

“You know this, Mr. Lynch,” she said tightly. “The Sodomites, even when given a chance to repent, continued to sin against the Lord.”

“Yes, but what exactly did they _do_?” Declan pressed, either oblivious or indifferent to the warning in her voice. Ronan leaned forward.

Sister Marjorie’s lips set in a hard line. “The important thing is the lesson. They disobeyed God; thus, they paid the consequences.”

Declan’s brow furrowed. “Surely it’s best to know the sin itself, though, so we can avoid it? Right, Sister?”

As the rest of the class looked on expectantly, Sister Marjorie gave a beleaguered sigh. “Very well. Children, turn to Leviticus 18, verse 22. Mr. Lynch, you may read.”

Dutifully, they flipped forward until they found the passage. Ronan followed along.

_Thou shall not lie with a man as with a woman; it is an—_

“—Abomination,” Declan finished, a note of satisfaction coloring his voice.

From behind him, Ronan could hear some of the older boys snigger to each other. _If God killed all the fags, then how’s your Dad still here? Shut up! I’m gonna beat your—_

Sister Marjorie’s stern voice cut through the whispers. “The Sodomites were an affront against the natural order. Let that be a lesson to you, in all matters wherein the Devil may tempt you.”

Ronan couldn’t remember the rest of the lesson, or any other lessons after that. All he could recall was climbing the concrete steps back to the church, something odd and nameless coiling in the pit of his stomach.

 _Abomination_ , he’d whispered, testing the shape of it in his mouth. Maybe he didn’t even say it out loud—maybe it was just knocking around in his skull. Or maybe it wasn’t even him at all, just the echo of Declan’s smug voice, still bouncing off the cement and plaster.

***

Ronan plucked a Bible from the back of the pew. He ran a thumb across the time-softened edges, a masochistic part of him daring his fingers to flip back to Leviticus.

He set the book back on the shelf. As if he’d need to read the words to remember them.

Chainsaw loosed a cry, and Ronan tensed, turning. But it was only Adam.

( _Only_ Adam—Ronan wanted to laugh at that. Like the other boy could ever be _only_ Adam.)

Adam leaned against the door, thumbs hooked in the pockets of his jeans. He wore a loose white t-shirt, faded but clean, meaning he hadn’t yet gone to his shift at the garage. In the dim, musty light of the church, he looked almost insubstantial: a boy made of dust, or a pillar of salt.

He looked—he looked almost like Noah, Ronan realized with no small discomfort.

He scooped Chainsaw into his arms. No one had seen, heard, or felt Noah in a week, not since the day Gansey—Ronan veered his thoughts from that day. Everything had turned out alright, of course, but somehow thinking about it too much felt dangerous. Like if he replayed the events too many times, the universe might realize it’d made a mistake, and snatch everything he loved away from him.

His grip tightened on Chainsaw.

Not in a week, he amended. None of the group wanted to say anything, but somehow they all sensed that Noah was gone for good.

Ronan tried not to think too much about that, either.

“Parrish,” he said flatly.

“Ronan,” said Adam, and the warmth in Ronan’s chest when Adam used his first name was almost enough to mitigate the wary look Adam was giving him.

Almost.

Adam had every right to be wary. After all, Ronan had spent the past week avoiding him.

For once, it hadn’t been a conscious effort to be an asshole—rather, the assholery had been an unfortunate side effect of his own insecurities.

It was just over a week since Ronan had stepped into his childhood bedroom and kissed Adam.

It was just over a week since Adam had joined him on the sprawling farmhouse porch and kissed Ronan.

Just over a week since they’d tangled together on the couch, Adam’s shaky hand tracing the ink on Ronan’s back, the sinews of his muscles; Adam’s shaky fingers raised to Ronan’s lips.

In the darkened church, Ronan shivered. _Abomination_.

“Are we ready to talk like adults?” Adam’s voice was a knife pressed into his spine. “Or are you only willing to talk to—” He thrust an arm to the crucifix hanging above the altar.

Ronan raised an eyebrow. “Insulting my religion? Real classy, Parrish.”

“Fuck off, Lynch,” Adam said, more weary than venomous. “If you’re not ready to be mature, I can go.” And true to his word, he turned on his heel.

Ronan’s stomach seized. He shoved his palms on the edge of the bench and vaulted over it, closing the gap between them in three strides. “Parrish, _wait_ ,” he said, grabbing Adam’s arm and pulling him back through the doorway.

Adam leveled a gaze. They were close, almost nose to nose. Bones jutted like blades in Adam’s face, and Ronan fought the urge to cup Adam’s cheek in his hand. _Abomination_.

He let go of Adam’s arm.

On his shoulder, Chainsaw cawed a frantic note before nuzzling up to his cheek. Ronan swallowed; Adam’s eyes flicked to his throat. “Parrish…”

“Yes?” Adam said softly. Ronan wanted a to crash a car.

“I fucked up,” said Ronan, because he was nothing if not honest.

Adam’s eyes were faraway, fixed somewhere behind Ronan’s head. “Just tell me… _why_ , okay?” He ran his tongue across his top lip, mouth quirked humorlessly. “What was it? You finally got what you wanted, then found it wasn’t quite what you thought? Didn’t realize you’d bought damaged goods?”

Ronan looked at him blankly. “What? Adam, no, of course not—”

“Then why,” Adam cut in, eyes hard and voice terrible.

“Adam—”

“ _Why_.”

“Because I was fucking _scared_ , okay!” Ronan exploded, turning away and throwing a fist into the doorframe. The sudden movement startled Chainsaw from his shoulder. She landed a few feet away, where she promptly began to drink the holy water.

“You think it’s fucking easy to—to kiss your best friend, your best friend _who probably isn’t into guys_ , your best friend who might hate you forever for what you just—”

“I kissed you back, didn’t I?” Adam said evenly.

“We both expected to die within the fucking week! There was no way I could trust you to be rational. And how was I to know if you were just— _experimenting_ ,” Ronan spat, the words acid in his throat, “or if I was just a game? Something to show off to Blue and the rest?” He threw his voice into a cruel falsetto. “ _Look, guys, I found out Lynch’s deep dark secret! He’s a goddamn fa—_ ”

“ _Ronan_. That’s enough,” said Adam.

Ronan stopped. His chest heaved. His heart was a telephone pole cleaved by lightning, dangerous and electric. Distantly, he realized he was making an ass of himself, but what else was fucking new.

“Ronan,” Adam said again. Ronan looked at him. Adam looked back.

Then Adam laid a hand on Ronan’s cheek, carefully traced the line of his jaw, and kissed him.

***

Once, Adam had tried to explain to Gansey and Ronan—mostly Gansey—what scrying felt like. _It’s like unhooking from your body,_ he’d said, fingers twisting in concentration. _Or dissolving into the air, but not disappearing, just—becoming a part of something beyond yourself, something so massive you feel like you could lose yourself in it._

Ronan hadn’t gotten it. Even when he dreamt, he was always _present_ , always tethered to the point of discomfort.

It’d sounded lovely, though. But in all fairness, anything would’ve sounded lovely from Adam Parrish’s wind-chapped lips.

Now, as his mouth melted into Adam’s, Ronan thought he was finally beginning to understand what the magician had meant.

***

The kiss was a different animal from the ones at the Barns. No longer starving, no longer desperate—no, that wasn’t quite right. He could still feel the undercurrent of hunger, but it was just that—an undercurrent, held in check by a controlling master.

This kiss was slower. More deliberate. And above all, _intentional_ —every second was purposeful and insistent, a message delivered from lip to lip.

Ronan was dissolving.

They broke apart, then fell back together, drawn to each other’s skin like colliding stars. Gingerly, Ronan cupped Adam’s face in his hand, felt the sharp press of his bones beneath his cheeks. Adam’s breath shuddered, but he closed his eyes and curled into Ronan’s touch like a moth toward the flame.

Unbidden, another version of Adam rose in Ronan’s mind: eyes hollowed, face gaunt and bruised, disguising the way he flinched from sudden movements.

Ronan wondered what strength it took to be touched like this, when every other hand against Adam’s skin had only brought agony.

“I want you to know,” Adam said slowly, “that I’m not playing a game.”

Ronan’s heart was an out-of-control pinball, slamming around in his chest.

“And…” Adam stepped backwards, eyes focused somewhere within himself. Frustration drove a crease into his brow. “I’d never...kissed a boy before. But I think—I _know_ I’m not experimenting.” He met Ronan’s eyes, gaze as insistent as the kiss. “This is real.”

“Real,” echoed Ronan.

***

Reality was always a tricky thing for dreamers.

Were dreams real? Declan said they weren’t. They’d crawl through the window in Ronan’s bedroom, slippered feet padding carefully across the roof. Ronan would dig his fingers into the gutter and dangle his legs over the side. As his pajama pants flapped in the breeze, he’d tell Declan his dreams.

 _Impossible_ , the older Lynch would say, chin set defiantly. _You’re just making that up._

Declan could never remember what he’d dreamt. Maybe he never dreamed at all.

 _I’m telling you, it was real,_ Ronan would insist as Declan scoffed and pushed up from the ledge.

It wasn’t until Declan had burst into his little brother’s smoke-filled room to find Ronan’s pajamas melting to his skin, flaming sword in hand, that he finally started to believe.

But did that make it real?

It had always been real for Ronan, even if no one else believed. But was that enough? If it wasn’t real for someone else, did it matter if it was real for him?

He didn’t know.

Philosophical questions, he thought idly, were best left to people with “Gansey” in their titles.

***

Adam was watching him. Not expectantly, not impatiently—just leaning back on his heels, wearing a slight smile that made Ronan’s chest ache.

Ronan averted his eyes.

“So,” he coughed, tugging at his bracelets. “What does that mean for…us?” He grimaced even as he said it. He sounded like Declan, begging his girls not to leave him.

“It means we drop out of school and spend the rest of our lives making out on your couch,” Adam deadpanned.

“Really?”

“Fuck if I know, Ronan! What do you it want it to be?”

What did he want? His mind suddenly hazy, Ronan struggled to think. He wanted to keep staring at the glint of dust in Adam’s eyelashes, that’s what he wanted. But somehow he figured that wasn’t the response Adam was looking for.

“I could be your—boyfriend, if you wanted,” Adam continued, a touch uncertain.

Yes, he wanted. _Boyfriend_. The word sent an illicit thrill down his back. “Okay,” he said, a slow grin spreading over his lips.

For a second, Adam’s face split in surprise, as if he hadn’t really expected him to say yes. Then Ronan saw the tension ease from his brow, the upturning curve of his mouth.

 _This was really happening._ Ronan would’ve thought he was dreaming, but even his dreams never worked out so happily.

Chainsaw flapped back to his shoulder. Something cold dripped through his shirt, and he saw that her beak still glistened wet with holy water. A chill rose on his neck. In his ear, Declan whispered _abomination_ , and Ronan swore under his breath.

“What?” Adam asked, alarmed.

“I think,” said Ronan, “I’m going to have to talk to Declan.”

***

When he was sixteen, Ronan did something stupid.

It would not be the first, nor last, time he did something stupid, but it _was_ the last time he executed that particular brand of stupidity.

His father was dead— _murdered_ , he still had to remind himself; not peacefully ‘passed on’, but _murdered_ —and Ronan was losing his mind.

He threw the keys into his recently inherited BMW and slammed the gas until he was two counties over. Something sick and vicious raged in his chest. He needed—he didn’t know what he needed. But maybe his soul did, because the next thing he knew, he was skidding into the gravelly lot of an unfamiliar Catholic church.

Inside, a man stepped out of the confessional. Ronan quickly shoved past the elderly lady about to enter and threw himself into the booth.

He could just see the outline of the priest behind the metal screen. Briefly, he wondered what the fuck he was doing here, and if it was too late to run the hell out and pretend it never happened. But the same unknowable thing that was driving his stomach into knots was also driving him here, into this booth. Maybe he had something to confess. He wouldn’t know.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” Ronan recited, venom staining the words of the old prayer.

“What would you like to confess?”

Ronan was silent, skin stretched white over his knuckles.

Again the priest tried. “I’m here to listen and understand you, but you need to tell me, so I can help you.” When Ronan was still quiet, he added gently, “I’ve heard it all. You needn’t be afraid.”

He wasn’t afraid. There was just a storm waging in his nervous system, splitting open thoughts before he could realize them. The only thing he was sure of was a sense of _wrongness_ in the crevices of his joints, in the hollows of his bones.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. As if from far away, he heard himself spit, “I’m gay.”

The priest sighed, as if that’s what he’d been expecting, which was funny, because Ronan hadn’t expected it at all.

He blinked, considering. Ronan had never put it into words before, but it made some sort of sense, now that he’d said it. He’d thought he was here about the dreaming thing, but apparently his subconscious found this more pressing.

“You’re young,” the priest began carefully, “and you have time on your side. Things can change, I promise you, and one day you’ll look back on this as but a puerile mistake.”

Ronan thought that unlikely. He didn’t even know what ‘puerile’ meant. “But what if—what if I don’t—”

“The wonderful thing about the Father,” the priest interrupted,“is that He will always forgive, so long as you _repent_.” He pronounced the last word sharply, the ‘t’ a stake into Ronan’s grave.

 _Repent_. He kicked at the grate between them, hard and swift. The priest flinched, and Ronan felt a stab of violent pleasure. “I’m asking if I’m okay,” Ronan enunciated, weight on each syllable.

“I don’t—”

“Am I _okay_!” The last word was punctuated by the crash of his chair to the concrete. Head churning, he swept out of the church, the old woman throwing him a scandalized look as he stormed past.

He hadn’t needed to wait for an answer. He’d already known.

That night, Ronan dreamt a thousand vicious dreams. Waking, he tore the contents and realizations of the day into shreds and pushed them under the surface of his mind, where they remained, undisturbed, for a long time.

(Where they would have remained, maybe forever, if Gansey hadn’t shown up to school that one day with a newly-fixed car, newly acquired automotive skills, and a new, infuriating, unnerving, and strangely handsome addition to the friend group, who somehow managed to dredge it all back to the prickly surface in a matter of days.)

***

Ronan had promised himself he would never execute that particular brand of stupidity again. But now, slamming the gas out of town, a confession burning in his throat once more, he came to the unfortunate, wholly unsurprising conclusion that he’d never be able to stop making shitty decisions.

 _And the world faints in shock,_ he could picture Adam saying, a wry smile on his chapped lips.

In spite of himself, Ronan grinned. _Fuck_. He had it bad. But to Ronan’s continuing disbelief, it seemed Adam did, too.

Now if he could just make the long ago echo of Declan’s voice shut up, maybe they could live happily-fucking-after.

Or whatever.

Ronan parked in the suburbs and hopped a metro into the city. Sliding headphones around his ears, he drummed his fingers on the bar of the seat in front of him until an important looking man in a crisp black suit turned and shot him a withering glare. Ronan smiled apologetically, then made the completely unrelated decision to exercise his feet, tapping the rhythm into the back of the seat until the man swore and left in a huff.

But even that bit of fun wasn’t enough to slake the fear crawling up his throat.

Ronan had no illusions about how this meeting would go. Declan—the butter-smooth, sticky-smiled politician—was the natural product of Aglionby Academy. And Aglionby Academy, with its slur-ridden bathroom stalls and ever-constant “locker room talk” that always seemed to endure long past the confines of locker room, was as much permeated with casually cruel homophobia as it was with testosterone, over-priced cologne, and swanky sports cars.

Yeah. Ronan knew exactly how this was going to end. But the stupid, senselessly principled part of him that compelled him to honesty would never let him rest until all his secrets laid bare on the table.

As he stood outside Declan’s D.C. office, the selfish part of him wished he could bring along Matthew. But he wasn’t naive enough to think that even his little brother’s mellowing presence would be enough to stem a tide of hatred.

He walked in alone.

Finding the office wasn’t difficult. All it took was a few, well-aimed glowers and a self-assured stride, and then he was there, in front of the door, unquestioned.

He knocked once. The door swung open, Declan’s bleary eyes clearing and widening in alarm when he took in the visitor. “ _Ronan_? What are you—”

“We need to talk,” said Ronan, already pushing into the office.

Declan moved back to let him pass. “How’d you even get in here? This building is supposed to be I.D. only.”

Ronan just gave him a baleful look, and Declan sighed, raising his hands in surrender. “Whatever. I should know better than to ask, but I guess I’ll do it one more time. What’d you need to talk about?” For the first time, real concern knit into his face. “Is Matthew—”

“He’s fine,” Ronan said shortly. “It’s...about me.”

Declan lifted a dubious brow. “Okay.”

Ronan picked up a paper-weight from his brother’s desk and tossed it from hand to hand. He kept his eyes fixed on the singular, dingy window in front of them.

“I’m,” he faltered, then cursed himself. Declan could always smell fear like sharks do blood, and he’d just dumped a bucket of chum into the water.

 _New strategy, Lynch,_ he told himself, and slid back into familiar anger.

“I have a boyfriend,” he spat, and poised on his haunches for the counterstrike.

But Declan merely pursed his lips. “So, you’re gay, that’s what you’re saying.”

_Yes. No. Yes, but I wish I wasn’t; does that count?_

“Yes,” Ronan said, and braced himself, looking at his brother from the corner of his eye. _Abomination—_

Declan nodded, blowing out a breath. “Okay. Anything else you had to say, or are you gonna let me get back to work?”

Ronan could only shake his head, bewilderment slowing his reactions. “Did you hear what I said? I said I’m fucking gay—”

“Yeah, Ronan, I heard,” Declan said wearily. “What, do you want me to be mad or something? Start quoting bible verses at you? ‘Cause I hate to break it to you, but we’ve all grown up since Sunday School. And I’ve spent the past god-knows-how-many months trying to keep our family together through—” he checked to make sure the door was shut, then lowered his voice “—demon attacks and magical triads and hit men and killer dreams. So yeah. I honestly don’t give a shit. If you want me to yell, for old time’s sake, I can do that. Is that what you want?”

“No,” said Ronan, and found that he meant it. The itch to fight Declan was gone, scraped away by a new wash of memories. Memories of the older brother who volunteered to read every Sunday just because he knew Ronan was afraid of being called on. The older brother who followed him onto the roof, an audience to his dreams; who pulled him from the burning wreckage of his nightmares and saved his life.

The older brother who had always, _always_ done everything he could to keep their family together.

Ronan’s chest was tight.

“Then if that’s all, I really _would_ like to get back to work...” Declan motioned to the pile of papers on his desk, and Ronan nodded, ducking out and skirting past the security guards.

***

By the time he returned to Henrietta, the stars smeared like clouds of dust through the sky. He found Adam perched on the steps of Monmouth Manufacturing.

“How’d it go?” Adam asked, concern drawing his mouth to an uncertain frown.

Ronan just looked at him. _Really_ looked at him, the way he’d never let himself, the way that used to—still did, a little—make shame curl hot and ugly in his stomach. He drank in the sight like he’d been starving his whole life, desperately and hungrily—this moon-dipped marvel that was now his boyfriend (his _boyfriend_!).

For the first time, the long-echoing voice in his ear was silent.

“Ronan?” Adam tried again.

Ronan didn’t speak, just stepped forward and kissed him, kissed him, kissed him, leaning into the surprised gasp of Adam beneath him and letting that be answer enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Can you tell I just finished binge rereading trc and am now supremely emo? . I hope you enjoyed and if you ever have time to comment it’d be greatly appreciated!!


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